


Much Abides

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Jon x Sansa Remix, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After spending ten years lost beyond the Wall, Jon is finally reunited with his lady wife.</p>
<p>Written for Round 1 of the Jon x Sansa Remix on Livejournal.<br/>Remix Couple: Odysseus x Penelope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Abides

**Much Abides**

He has been Lord Stark for over a decade now (his boyhood dream of being a Stark for true granted with one stroke of a pen) but he has never truly felt it.

Before the final march against the Others, he was much too preoccupied with gathering winter provisions, and forging more dragonglass arms, and staving off the Ironborn, to give much thought to his new name or title. Now, sitting in the lord’s seat with half the North feasting in his hall, it is all he can think on.

_All save my lady wife._

Jon glances to where Sansa’s hand rests on his arm.

She’s reached for him several times this night, sometimes to draw his attention but more often it seems she is simply reassuring herself that he is still seated beside her. With every touch Jon’s felt the glares of several dozen lordlings needling his back. He is not certain what makes him more ill at ease, the scowls aimed in his direction or the warm gentle weight of Sansa’s hand through his sleeve.

“I think it is time some lords were abed.”

Sansa is leaning close enough that her lips brush shell of his ear as she speaks.

Jon’s mouth goes dry. Surely he is imagining the suggestion behind her words.

He reaches for his mug of ale, desperate to put some space between them and to remind himself they are in a hall filled with their servants and bannerman, a most improper place to ravish one’s wife.

Sansa gives his arm a squeeze and nods to the seat next to her. Jon flushes, embarrassed and amused as he finally takes her meaning.

Their son is fast asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, his sleeve dangerously close to sopping up what’s left in his trencher.

“It’s little wonder, with all the excitement these past days,” Sansa says, reaching to run a hand over Robb’s dark curls, a smile on her lips.

_My son. My wife._ Jon is sure he’s never seen a better sight. 

“Come, my lord. Help me see him to bed.”

Jon nods, eager to have leave of the hall, and stoops to pick up the boy.

They move through the keep in silence, Jon following obediently behind Sansa, their son cradled to his chest sleeping soundly.

Robb is maybe too big to be carried in such a way. He is not yet ten, but already he is tall for his age, all skinny limbs and knobby joints. Were he more awake, Jon imagines the boy might be indignant to be babied so.

Jon smiles to himself, remembering the stubborn jut of Robb’s chin when he refused to leave the feast early with Jeyne Poole and his nurse, insisting he was old enough to stay.  

Robb’s chamber is only few doors down from Jon and Sansa’s own. _Rickon’s room,_ Jon thinks sadly.

The years have done little to ease the ache left by those that are gone, their ghosts lingering in every corner of Winterfell, but as Jon takes in the room, he is pleased to see only reminders of the boy curled against his chest, not the little brother who was lost on Skagos so many years before.

Sansa moves about the room, tutting over the crumpled tunic that is carelessly tossed over the back of a chair and the carved wooden knights and dragon abandoned on the hearthrug.

Jon walks towards the bed. Ghost is already situated at its foot, and as Jon moves to gently set Robb onto the mattress, the direwolf stirs, blinking blearily at his master.  

“Hey boy,” Jon greets lowly, running a hand over the wolf's muzzle. He is glad to have his old friend watching over his son. Ghost leans to nuzzle into his hand for a moment, before settling back down to sleep. 

Meanwhile, Sansa busies herself with pulling off Robb's boots. Robb rouses some when she removes his doublet, raising a sleep-heavy arm in assistance, and mumbling something that is too low for Jon to hear but has Sansa laughing soft and warm.

It pleases him to see them together. Sansa is well suited to motherhood. Gentle and affectionate and kind. The sort of mother he once imagined for himself. _For his babes_. 

He watches as Sansa tucks the furs close around Robb, leaning forward to brush a tender kiss against his forehead.

“Sleep well, my sweet boy.”

“Goodnight Mother,” Robb's murmurs, eyes closed once more. “Goodnight Father.”

Jon is surprised to be included and scrambles for a reply. 

“Goodnight Robb,” Jon manages to choke out, a tightness settling in his chest. 

_I've missed so much_ , Jon thinks sadly, watching as his son drifts back to sleep. Jon was not there to hold Robb on the day he was born, or to see his first steps, or to teach him to sit a horse or hold a sword.  _In only a handful of years he will be the same age I was when I left for the Watch. Nearly a man._

Jon spares one last glance at the sleeping boy before following Sansa into the dim corridor. 

He envies his son, wishing he too might be excused from the festivities in the hall. 

Jon has never been easy at feasts, and it is all the worse now that he's been away. His bannerman have badgered him all night for tales of his trials beyond the Wall. All the while their sons and grandsons and nephews have sulked in their ale, and cast dark looks Jon's way. Jon supposes the number of men who sought after Sansa in his absence should not surprise him, but their continued presence in his home makes him feel uneasy. 

Of course there are plenty more who are happy to see him returned alive and well...

Wyman Manderly, who had made several effusive toasts to the future of House Stark as he sunk further and further into his cups.

Galbart Glover, who had offered Jon so many earnest apologies regarding the suit he'd posed to Sansa, that both men left the conversation red faced and uncomfortable. 

The Greatjon, who had slapped a meaty hand against Jon’s back while japing, “A fine trick it was coming back from the dead the once, but to do it again is just showing off!”

While Jon feels honored to have the loyalty of such men, he’s had quite enough feasting and drinking in their company.

_Oh to be Jon Snow once more._ No one paid any mind to whether the bastard of Winterfell left a feast early. But as Jon Stark he cannot so easily shirk his duty.

“We should return,” he finally says with a sigh.

But Sansa shakes her head. She smiles softly and reaches for his wrist. 

“Come,” she bids, tugging him in the opposite direction of the hall. 

He obeys, silently following her down the corridor, unable to concentrate on more than the gentle run of soft fingers over his pulse. In the hall her hand on his sleeve had been distracting enough but now the feel of her touch on the bare skin of his wrist is near maddening. 

She lets go when they reach her chambers and before he can think to reach for her hand again she's left him in the doorway.

Her maids have not been up from the feast yet and the room is dark save for the reddish glow of embers left in the hearth, but he can still make out her figure moving in the shadows.

He watches as she kneels by the meager fire to light a taper before carefully making her way through the room lighting beeswax candles that cast the room in a warm, pleasant glow. 

He has grown used to the dark and the cold. During the long Winter, there were times where the sun did not rise for months, and he had nothing save tallow to burn, which stank and sputtered and smoked and gave off barely enough light to see two feet in any direction. On those days he would sit in the darkness and try to conjure her there, the soft press of her beside him, the feel of her head nestled under his chin, but those feeble imaginings were nothing to having her here before him.

She is lovely. So lovely it almost aches to see it. He had forgotten. 

Sansa lights one last candle and moves towards her dressing table. She begins to methodically pull pins from her hair until it is unbound and tumbling to her waist in soft red waves. 

He knows what she is about, has thought of little else since the moment he first laid eyes on her again, but now that it has come to it, he finds he cannot move from the door. 

Their reunion had been a sweet thing. Sansa had wept and clung to him, her lips brushing against any part of him she could reach as she murmured his name and praises to the gods.

But for all her joy in seeing him, Jon worries he has read too much into her actions, that he has allowed loneliness and time to twist her kindly meant affections into something more. 

Jon did not go to her the night before. No, instead he had spent his first night back within Winterfell’s walls alone in the lord’s chambers, overly warm and restless, the feather mattress feeling absurdly soft after years spent bedding down on nothing but straw and furs and the hard earth.  

It was Robb who slept in Sansa’s bed, seeking his mother’s comfort after all the confusion wrought by Jon’s return. Jon could not begrudge his son that (however much he might long to have Sansa to himself). But now, alone at last with his lady wife, he is seized by the panic that last night’s sleeping arrangements were more about delaying this moment than offering comfort to Robb.

While Jon and Sansa wed out of duty not love, there had been some fondness and affection between them by the time he left for the Wall.

Jon still harbors the hope that what remains between them might grow into more if given time, but he knows that cannot happen if she thinks he's returned from ten years of estrangement to demand his marriage rights.

“Sansa, I...I don't want...I don't expect you to—”

_I sound a fool._

Still, he knows it is better to look a fool than for it to remain unspoken between them. Too many men have forced their will on Sansa. He will not join their numbers.

"We don't...you don't—”

“Hush now." Sansa is before him, silencing his stammering with the soft press of her fingers to his lips. "I've waited long enough."

Her lips replace her fingers, kissing him tenderly, and Jon's doubts are forgotten.

Instead he remembers those few heady months they had together. How lovely she was in the godswood when he draped her in his cloak, her hair shining and dotted with flakes of snow. How easily Sansa took to calling him cousin, husband (far easier than she ever was at calling him brother). How right she felt nestled against him in their bed at night, the bite of Winter chased by the warmth of her wrapped about him under the furs.

Jon moves to deepen the kiss, looping an arm about her waist but Sansa pushes him back.

"I’m sorry!" he apologizes, taking a hurried step back, his worries fast returning.

Sansa laughs, stretching to peck a light kiss on the tip of his nose. 

“Silly husband," she chides, looking up at him with tender amusement. She turns around, gathering her hair to one side, revealing the back of her gown.

"Might I trouble you for assistance with my laces my lord?" She asks over one shoulder.

Jon swallows and obeys. 

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he tugs the ribbons that bind her dress free from the hundreds of tiny eyelets up the back of her bodice. It is slow work, but eventually he manages to loosen it enough that she is able to tug it from her shoulders down her hips until it gathers around her feet. 

Her shift cuts lower than her gown, dipping to temptingly reveal more of her pale skin. Jon hesitates a moment before reaching out to lightly brush the backs of his fingers over the fine hairs that wisp at the nape of her neck.

He hears a catch in Sansa's breathing and takes that as encouragement enough. His hands are bolder now, caressing along the lace that edges the neckline of her shift and up the slope of her neck. With one hand buried in her hair, he steps behind her, tilting her head so he can press soft kisses along her neck and behind her ear.

Sansa sags into his chest with a sigh. 

"I have made for a poor host tonight," she murmurs, boneless and content against him.  

Jon pauses, and for one terrible moment he fears she will ask they return to the hall.  _Sansa was always so mindful of her courtesies…_

"While our bannerman feasted and toasted your return, I was rather distracted," she goes on, one hand reaching back to cup his face. "I could think of nothing else but having you in my bed." 

Jon groans, heat coiling in his belly. Stirred by her words, he spins her around and they're kissing once more. 

She quickly removes his jerkin and tunic, her fingers working efficiently in between fevered kisses that leave him feeling dizzy. Sansa stands on tiptoe, her hands threaded in his hair, tugging him closer. He is more than happy to oblige, stooping to chase the taste of Arbor Gold on her tongue.

_That is not all I’d like to taste this night._

They are both panting when they part. Jon feels a little guilty when he notices Sansa’s cheeks look irritated from the rub of his beard, but she is smiling, her eyes dark with want. He presses one last heated kiss to her lips before dropping to kneel at her feet. 

He removes her slippers before untying and gently rolling down her wool stockings. He takes his time, his hands lingering on the curve of her calf, the soft skin behind knee, the inside of her thigh, and higher still. The breathy squeak she makes when his fingers at last reach where she has soaked through her smallclothes sets his blood alight. He tugs them down without preamble and ducks beneath her hem. 

"Jon!" She gasps at the first drag of his tongue.

_Ten years since I last supped between my lady wife's thighs,_ Jon thinks wickedly, delighting in each little noise tumbling from Sansa’s lips. _I am a man starved._

His hands grip the fleshy give of her upper thighs, urging her to spread them further apart. She does, teetering unsteadily. He gives a pleased hum against her, earning him a litany of more 'Jon' and 'Yes' and 'Please'. She comes apart against his mouth, legs wobbling beneath her. 

"Enough, Jon. Please. Please, I can't ..." she says, hands braced on his shoulders, pushing weakly against him.

Jon pulls his head out from under her shift. He grins up at her, mouth and beard wet, feeling smug and so intensely happy at the dazed look on Sansa’s face. She is leaning most of her weight on him, her legs still shaking from her release. 

As he stands, he bends his knees to scoop her over his shoulder. Sansa lets out a little yelp of alarm, but otherwise allows him to carry her to the bed and deposit her among the furs. 

He laughs, surprised, when she tugs him half on top of her. He tries to brace most of his weight onto his forearms but she is already wrapping one leg high around his waist, trapping him against her.

"Gods be good!" He takes in a sharp breath as she shifts beneath him. His arousal is pressed against her belly, the rub of her against it is the sweetest kind of torture. She gives him a wolfish, knowing smile, writhing against him some more. She presses eager open-mouthed kisses up his neck and along his jaw, before tasting herself on his lips. He enthusiastically returns her kisses.

_At this rate our lips are like to be chapped raw._

But Jon cannot bring himself to care. Not when Sansa is making encouraging little sighs and mewls against his mouth, her hands cupping his face 

He pulls away to help her off with her shift, tossing it to join the jumble of furs that have been kicked to the foot of the bed. 

He sits up, settling back on his haunches, and stares at her in wonder.

_She is changed._

She had been more girl than woman when they wed, just past her sixteenth nameday. And while Sansa has always been tall and so very _very_ lovely, she is no longer the coltish, slender creature he remembers.

When he left, they had both been in a sorry state. Most of Winterfell's winter stores were destroyed during the Bolton siege, and while they had managed to ration out enough to keep the smallfolk from starving to death, all within the keep and Winter Town became acquainted with going to bed hungry. He remembers the shame he felt when Sansa's ribs began to show through her skin, how sunken and pallid they both had seemed then.  

_Not anymore._

The woman before him is radiant. Years and motherhood have softened her, rounded her, and the effect of it steals his breath.

"Beautiful," he says, when Sansa will not meet his eye, suddenly seeming shy and uncertain of him. He surges forward to kiss her. "Lovely girl. Beautiful girl. My beautiful wife."

He continues to murmur lovesick nonsense against her skin, until she melts beneath him, her lips seeking his once more. 

Her hands drag across his chest, fingers moving over the sparse dark hair that's scattered there before following it lower to where it forms a trail down his stomach. Without breaking their kiss she reaches to unfasten the placard of his breeches and urges him to shimmy them down past his hips. 

Jon gasps when she takes him in hand. 

_It has been too long,_ he thinks, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and taking deep shuddering breaths to keep from spending in her hand. 

He trembles as he takes her. It is like their wedding night come again. Like he is still a green boy tumbling in the furs with Ygritte. Only this is so much worse. Ten years of separation, of cold nights and colder beds, of desperate longing has led to this moment.

He moves slowly, not trusting himself to do more. Sansa meets each slow, measured thrust with an eager tilt of her own hips. The feel of her is intoxicating.

Knowing he will not last long, Jon reaches between them to touch her. Sansa gives a keening cry at his touch, her nub still sensitive from when he used his mouth on her. Jon circles his fingers more frantically against her. She cries out again, louder than the first. 

_I hope they hear in the hall_ , Jon grins, thinking of his wife's would-be suitors. _Let all those fools who thought to claim her hear!_

He sits up on his knees, taking Sansa with him, his arms braced around her back. She gives a little sigh of approval, liking the new angle. Sansa grips his shoulders levering herself to sink down onto him, her eyes fluttering shut. She sets a rhythm, her teats bouncing as she moves. He bends to take a nipple between his lips. 

"Oh Jon!" Her nails dig at his back, her pleasure coursing over her for a second time.  

“Sansa. My lady. My sweet wife." he murmurs, continuing to pull hips over his and work her through her peak. 

“Yes! Yours," she says, clinging to him. "Yours, Jon. Yours. Yours. Yours..."

He gives into his release with her name on his lips, holding her against him tightly.

When they finally catch their breath and are both lying sleepy and sated against the furs, Sansa props herself up on one elbow, her brow furrowed.

"What is this from?"

He looks to down to where her she traces the jagged silver ridge of a scar on his shoulder. It is an old wound, delivered from a wight's spearpoint, but it is new to her.

"Just a scratch," he says with a dismissive shrug, not wanting her to dwell on thoughts of battle or their separation. But then Sansa leans over him, placing an open-mouthed kiss against the mark.

_I have ten years worth of new scars. She is welcome to ask after any one of them if they are to receive such treatment._

Sansa has new scars of her own. Delicate, spidery lines that stretch along her breasts and sides, signs that she has born their child.

Jon feels a possessive thrill at the marks, his mind still filled with her repeated pledge of ‘yours’ from their earlier coupling. He gathers her into his arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, before making a pledge of his own.

“I am yours, Sansa. For as long as you will have me.”

She laughs, turning to press her face into his neck, an arm thrown over his middle.

“Then I suggest you make yourself at ease, my lord. I’ll not be parted from you again.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was first posted as a part of the Jon x Sansa Remix. Originally it was going to be a much longer story but due to my terrific time management skills I decided that for the remix I would just turn the epilogue into a one-shot and call it a day. Hopefully I’ll get around to posting the rest of the story as a separate fic at some point, because I really liked what I had written so far and it was already chock full of annoying suitors, and grumpy senile Ghost, and mommy!Sansa, and pining (so much freakin’ pining!).


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